Homecoming
by TheChasm
Summary: "They have all aged so much since the last time they left this house. Perhaps it would help if the house could mirror that." / The Weasleys return to the Burrow after the Battle of Hogwarts, but one of their number is missing and they're not sure it can ever feel like home again.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

**A/N: Wow! Chapter 4 of ****_By The Light Of The Full Moon_**** only went up yesterday and I'm already posting again! I've had on-and-off writer's block on this story for ages, but I love it way too much to abandon it. It's my baby! :)**

**Oh, and it was written for the Hunger Games Competition, Round 1 (the scoring) on Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges.**

**I hope you'll enjoy it!**

* * *

**Homecoming**

When Hermione opens the front door they all flinch, simultaneously, as if worried that the air that spills out will smell musty or that the floor will be covered with dust. Perhaps it would be less painful for them if it was – they have all aged so much since the last time they left this house. Perhaps it would help if the house could mirror that.

Hermione walks towards Harry and takes his hand, leading him into the house. They look back at the Weasleys still huddled on the doorstep, and at Fleur standing with her hand on Bill's shoulder. Her pale hair shines amongst the red, and her fiercely sad expression is a sharp contrast to the desolate hopelessness on the family's faces. The three of them, not part of the mourning family however much they pretend to be, are in this together.

"What are we doing?" Harry whispers to Hermione as she walks him to the kitchen.

"The clock," she mumbles. "The clock, the clock, the clo –"

Her words die out as they walk into the kitchen, where Mrs Weasley's clock hangs on the far wall. There are nine hands on it, all pointing at _home_, and for a moment Harry thinks that everything is fine, that it really _was_ just a joke, before he remembers that Fleur received a hand the day of her wedding.

His eyes are caught by a gleam of silver on the floor. As if in a trance, he walks forward and bends to pick it up, showing it to Hermione.

"It fell," she whispers. "I thought it might."

They stare at it, resting equally on Harry's palm and Hermione's, when a sharp gasp is heard from behind them. They whirl around to see the rest of the family standing in the entrance to the kitchen – of course, there's no hoping that _Weasleys_ will stay where they're told to – and George bolts, up the stairs to his room. They hear his footsteps on the floor and the slam of his bedroom door, and they don't need to hear his sobs to know what he is doing.

Mrs Weasley walks towards them, taking her son's clock hand from them. She presses it between her hands, almost as if hoping that warming the silver will heat the blood in Fred's still body.

* * *

It feels like home, and that isn't right.

Percy's room should be unwelcoming. It should only be a reminder of how much he has betrayed his family. But he fits into it seamlessly, and when he closes his eyes he can pretend he is seventeen again. It feels like he belongs.

The Weasley jumpers he has rejected over the past few Christmases are laid out on his bed, waiting for him; other than that, the room is a time capsule. His old clothes are hanging in the cupboard and a quill he forgot to grab when he left the house lies abandoned on his desk. He notices that the room is dust-free and imagines his mother sobbing softly to herself as she painstakingly cleans it, ready for him the moment he comes back.

The thought does not make the guilt any better and he curls up on the bed (and he hasn't slept on it for so long, _so long_) and looks out of the window at the all-too-familiar view. How many times has he dreamed about returning home over the past three years? In his head his parents would hug him, his siblings would smile and everyone would tell him they forgave him. After reconciling with them all in the Room of Requirement, one of the thoughts running through his head was _I can go home again._

But then Fred died and Percy's return is silent and sad. There are no fireworks or cakes baked by his mother; Fred will never give him that blindingly bright smile and welcome him back. This is – not how it was supposed to be.

Charlie slips into the room so quietly that Percy does not notice him until he sits down on the bed. He rests his hand on Percy's shoulder.

"We shouldn't be here," Percy whispers almost inaudibly. "Not when he isn't."

Charlie is silent for a long time. At last he murmurs, "No. We shouldn't. But we are, and – well, we need to keep on living for him."

Percy closes his eyes, but not in time to stop the tears trickling down his cheeks. Charlie puts both arms around him and pulls him into a hug. Percy hides his face in Charlie's shoulder and wonders why, despite everything, his big brother's arms still feel like home.

* * *

She finds him in the garden, kneeling in the long grass and watching the gnomes peeking at him from their holes. She doesn't say anything, just takes his hand as she flops down beside him and waits for him to speak. Bill thinks that he could fall in love with her all over again just by looking at her still face and the way she lets him lean against her. She has done so much for him and he does not know if he will ever be able to repay her – and if he mentions it to her, she will tell him that she is his wife and that is part of the job of a married person.

"Zere is nothing I can say to make eet better," she tells him after a while. "So I will not try. But come to me and I will be zere for you; you know zat. Always."

"I don't deserve you," he says in response, trying to focus on the conversation and Fleur and the gnomes and anything other than the horror of seeing his little brother lying still and cold on the floor of the Great Hall and _oh, Bill promised himself he would always protect them –_

She kisses him softly. "Eet is not about what is deserved or not, Bill. Do you think Fred deserved to die?" He stiffens, but she squeezes his hand and ploughs on. "'E is gone and you are 'ere and you think it is not fair. But zat does not matter, because it is what 'as happened. And you must be strong, because one leetle sibling is gone but zere are others. And you must protect zem."

And, well, there isn't much he can say to that.

* * *

The sun is setting on their third day home, but somehow it does nothing to warm Ron's heart. He sits on the doorstep, watching Harry and Hermione in the front yard. She leans her head against his shoulder and he puts an arm around her. Ron knows that a long time ago, this would have bothered him. Now he thinks that Harry is Hermione's brother and Fred isn't Ron's anymore.

And that isn't _fair._

She's beautiful. Her hair is thick and loose in the evening sun and every time he sees her coffee-coloured eyes he remembers the feeling of her soft lips on his. He thinks he's falling in love all over again only by being near her and wonders if maybe she could mend the cracks in his broken heart. There'll always be a scar, but she can maybe close the open wound and stop the constant _bleeding._

The thing is, he's afraid to let her try.

Footsteps sound behind Ron and he turns to see his father sit down on the doorstep behind. He swallows painfully when he sees the lines on Mr Weasley's forehead that weren't there four days ago and the way he sighs quietly as his gaze turns to his son.

"What happened at Hogwarts, Ron?" he asks at last, his voice tired but steady.

For a moment all Ron can see is the image of his brother dead on the floor, before his father glances in Hermione's direction and his confusion clears.

"We – we kissed," he says awkwardly. "Just before the battle." His eyes sting with tears as he remembers the elation still running through him as they met Fred and Percy; Hermione loved him, all the years of waiting had paid off, she loved him and she wanted to be with him and he'll never be able to tell Fred, now.

That hurts.

Mr Weasley gives him a long, searching look. "You love her," he says, and it isn't a question.

Part of Ron wants to roll his eyes and say _No, I just kissed her for the hell of it, actually,_ but he doesn't have the energy and so he only nods.

"Then why are you keeping away from her?" his father asks.

Ron feels angry suddenly – what does his father know of any of this? How can he try to simplify the muddle of emotions running through him into clear black-and-white?

"I need some space," he says, voice becoming slightly edgy.

His father doesn't heed the veiled warning. "No, you don't, Ron. You need people. Avoid Harry and Hermione and you won't heal."

The tiny spark of rage is growing, and Ron can feel red flames licking at the corner of his vision. "What do _you_ know?" he snarls. "Why are you bothering with giving me useless advice?"

His father remains impassive. "Because I have six children living and one dead," he says quietly. "And I have always tried to be a fair father."

The comment takes the wind out of Ron's sails and he wraps his arms around himself, refusing to look at his father until he feels a hand on his shoulder.

He turns to meet blue eyes identical to his own and just for a moment they look _human, _just for a moment they might _break_ and _shatter_ and it is the vulnerability in them that makes Ron listen to what his father says next. "Go to her, Ron. You need her."

So Ron nods, painfully, before rising on and walking over to his two best friends. "Can we talk?" he asks quietly, taking Hermione's hand. "Just – the two of us?"

She offers him a tentative smile as she rises with him, not letting go of his hand. Harry glances up at them from where he's still sitting on the grass and nods at Ron. In the back of his mind, he is suddenly reminded of the time when his best friend and his sister first kissed, the way he nodded as if to give permission, and with a rush of surprise he realises Harry is doing the same now. Then again, he shouldn't really be shocked – Harry and Hermione are, after all, brother and sister.

He takes Hermione to the garden and they sit down and just talk and talk, and much later Ron realises that his father was right. When he's with Hermione, he feels at home.

* * *

Two words. Just two words, and yet they have the power to make Ginny explode.

"FUNERAL PLANNING!" she shrieks, jumping to her feet. Belatedly she realises that she sounds demented, but she isn't really in a position to care at the moment.

"Ginny," Percy says, trying to reason with her. Their mother has dropped her gaze to the floor upon hearing her daughter's reaction to the reason for the family gathering, so it is left to him to deal with her.

Ginny will have none of it. She's so angry she wants to scream, and she doesn't even know _why,_ so she simply marches out of the room and through a side door to a place they don't talk about. She hears gasps behind her as she puts her hand on the doorknob, but she just doesn't care anymore.

They have left the coffin open. George insisted on it – although in the week since Fred's death the only person he has spoken a word to is Ginny, and that only when they are alone, the way his eyes widened when they slid the glass over his twin's face was indication enough. Ginny is glad of it: closing the coffin makes it real.

She kneels beside her brother's body and takes his cold, cold hand in hers, gripping it so tightly that it _has_ to warm him up. Nothing happens. His face remains the same; bright with frozen laughter, eyes closed and skin very pale. Very slowly, Ginny reaches to brush her hand through his soft hair and rest it on his cool cheek.

Then someone is disentangling her fingers from Fred's and Hermione sits down beside her, tugging her other hand away from her brother. "You can't do this, Ginny."

"Why the hell not?" Ginny demands.

Hermione flinches and she feels guilty. She isn't really angry with her: just frustrated and desperate and hopeless.

"Your mum's really upset," her friend replies at last in a low voice.

"So are we all."

"But why do you want to make it worse for her?"

"I just…" Ginny pauses to draw a struggling breath. "We can't have a funeral, Hermione. Not for Fred. It's just _wrong._"

"You can't keep him in here forever," Hermione points out reasonably.

"I want to," Ginny whispers. "I'm not brave enough to let go."

"You will be," Hermione says reassuringly. "You're Ginny Weasley. There's nothing you can't do."

"Except bringing him back."

"Listen to me, Ginny." Hermione reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. "You need a funeral. It's the only way you'll have closure."

Ginny closes her eyes. She knows Hermione is right, but the very thought of burying her brother – her laughing, _alive_ brother – under six feet of dirt makes her want to throw up. "And what about George?" she asks, knowing that she's just arguing for the sake of it now. "How will he handle it?"

"As far as I recall, he wasn't the one storming out of the living room at the mention of it," Hermione says dryly. "He looked worried about you, by the way. We should be getting back soon."

Ginny sighs and turns back to look at Fred. "It's his home too," she says, a little desperately. "We can't just – just stop him from ever coming back."

Hermione pulls her into a hug. "It won't be _your_ home until he's gone," she murmurs, and as much as Ginny hates the fact she knows it's true.

The next time her mother calls a meeting to discuss funeral plans, Ginny doesn't complain.

* * *

The sign on the door hurts to look at now, so Molly simply averts her gaze and knocks. No answer is forthcoming, so she puts her head around the door before walking in.

George is lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He does not acknowledge her when she walks in. _Don't expect him to,_ Ginny said, when explaining to her mother exactly how to deal with him. Perhaps in another time Molly would laugh at the sight of her youngest child trying to teach her how to raise her son – now, she is simply torn between gratitude for the advice and hurt at the fact that George turns to his sister before his mother.

"Is there anything you'd like, dear?" she asks gently. The only response is an almost imperceptible shake of the head.

"I brought you an orange," Molly says, placing it beside him on his bed. (She doesn't dare to look at the other bed in the room, so pristine that it's _obvious_ it hasn't been slept in for over a month.) "Your favourite fruit."

George picks the orange up and stares at it as if he's not quite sure what to do with it, or even what it is. It breaks Molly's heart – or what's left of it, anyway – to see her happy, laughing son so lost and confused. He has not yet looked her in the eye.

"You have to eat something," she says pleadingly, because it's been five days and she's not sure George even remembers what food is. She wants to break down and beg, to cry and shout and _force_ him to eat, but she knows that will only spook him. George is fragile, right now, and they need to be strong for him.

He does not reply.

"There must be something you want," Molly coaxes. "Some chocolate, maybe? Toast? Blueberry ice cream?"

She knows the last one is a mistake as soon as she's said it – Fred's favourite dessert. George does not visibly react, but when he shakes his head it is a bit more violent than normal.

"Please," Molly says, a hint of desperation creeping into her tone. "Anything."

George shakes his head again.

"Then what do you want, dear?" she asks despondently. All she can think is that she's failed, that her son will not listen to her, that his grief is too deep for even his mother's voice to soothe somewhat. She isn't expecting an answer.

Her blood runs cold when he turns empty eyes upon her and says in a flat, dead voice, "I want to go home."

* * *

**A/N: Please tell me what you thought in a review!**

**~Butterfly**


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